Words Hemmed Inside The Attic of My Mind

I wrote for two days, then I couldn't write yesterday. 
Nothing.
It's so difficult.

I have been dragging myself since the morning to write again, but... no progress: Just the heavy resistance of a body and mind not willing to move.

I want to write so much.
I want to write about everything.
Everything I see,
I hear,
I listen,
I speak,
I feel.
Everyone I meet.
I want to log everything.
The voices, the thoughts, the feelings, the emotions.
Those experiences.
My entire life and every life that is connected to me.
I want to draw the whole, tangled web with my words and bottles of ink.

But, I can't...
I am unable to.
I lodge it in my head, like notes tucked into invisible pockets.
But then when I think of jotting it down, I am unable to pick up the pen.
My spine doesn't straighten up.
My hand refuses to move.
Even the pages seem to hide from me.
I can't find pages suddenly.
Every minute I lived, carefully logged in my head, slips away.
They run down long corridors in my mind, into corner rooms at the end of the hall, slamming the doors behind them.
They go into those rooms, shut the doors, and hide in the old attic.
They disappear into the old attic, becoming an omnium gatherum — a hoard of sporadic bits and broken pieces, locked inside a rusted trunk, covered in spiderwebs, sealed by years of dust.
And I stand outside that attic door, pen in hand, too late.

- Oizys.

The Tide Of Rumination

Chopping vegetables. Slimy garlic sticking to my fingers.

The smell of oil and burning curry leaves drifted through the kitchen, sharp and bitter.

Somewhere in the sizzle and smoke, I felt myself slipping, slowly, inevitably, into the land of gloom. Bad thoughts consume me. Sometimes they flood my head like a raging tide, all at once, impossible to escape. Other times, they seep in slowly, quietly, like cold water trickling under a door, until everything inside me is wet and heavy.

Tonight, they reached up from some underground reservoir of Weltschmerz, soaking the fragile, functional surface of my mind.

I didn’t even wash my hands after cutting the vegetables. I just grabbed the random notebook I had been studying from earlier, flipped to the back pages. I just picked up a pen — stained, tired — and began to write — smearing faint smudges of garlic and oil into the paper’s skin. I had to distract myself from the despondency before it swallowed me whole.

- Oizys.